Precipitating headache
by SnapeSeraphin
Summary: Lestrade barges into Mycroft's office angry, only to realise the latter is not quite well and decides to lend a helping hand. Story was supposed to end there, but Mycroft decided to do something completely unexpected and hijacked the story. Read to find out what happened. Mystrade.


**AN**: Ah yes, SnapeSeraphin is breaking in a new fandom. I have been absolutely amazed by the BBC series 'Sherlock' and in particular found myself intrigued by the ever enigmatic Mycroft Holmes. I am quite apprehensive to play with this particular character, since I think I am not good enough of a writer to keep him in character; we know so little about him still. Instead, I've allowed a bit of influence from another of Mark Gatiss' portrayals, which has particularly struck a chord with me for some reason. If you'd like to know more, there is a more detailed note at the bottom.

Furthermore, this has been spawned by the amazing Mystrade trilogy by Nightengale, also available on this site and an absolute must-read if you're a Mystrade-fan.

Anyway.A bit of a fluffly Mystrade/pre-Mystrade which was only going to be Lestrade helping Mycroft out with a headache, but then Mycroft did something completely unexpected and kidnapped my story. I blame Gatiss.

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><p><span>Precipitating headache<span>

He'd barged past the assistant with the barest 'He in there?' and even though she got up in a belated and, from the glimpse he got, decidedly half-hearted attempt to stop him, something in his tone of voice, his expression, or maybe just the way he'd stormed into this hallowed space told her not to put up any serious resistance.

In any case, the door of Mycroft Holmes' office made a most satisfying 'crack' after he opened it so vehemently that it swung against the adjacent wall; it then bounced halfway back towards his face again. Or well, it would have, if he'd bothered to stand still.

Instead, he strode into the office, only vaguely registering that there was someone sat in front of the desk as well as behind it and zoned in on his target with the famous Lestrade temper that had got him into trouble so many times before.

"Did it enter you mind, even once, to tell me?" he demanded.

Holmes gave a delicate wince at the tone of his voice, appalled by probably both volume and decided plebeian accent. Lestrade was beyond caring for his sensibilities.

"Three years! Nearly three years, I laboured under this illusion, I lived it, breathed it, felt it….. Tell me, did you even consider telling me, just once?"

Holmes gave him the sort of pinched-faced look one would expect from a bureaucrat whose underlings refused to be reduced to a neat paragraph in his report. Instead of answering the irate man towering over him, he turned his gaze to the right.

"If you would excuse me, Prime Minister, it seems there is something I need to deal with presently. I do apologise for having to cut our meeting short."

Only now did the, normally observant, Detective Inspector realise the nameless, faceless person in front of the elder Holmes' desk who he'd ignored up until that point, was actually the Prime Minister. Under normal circumstances, he would have faltered…stuttered, blushed, apologised. Today, however… Today he had been surprised by a ghost who turned out not to be a ghost after all, had had to concede that a former colleague, who he thought had gone utterly mad had been right all along, had to admit, if only to himself, that the almost friendship he'd built with a certain Mycroft Holmes had existed nowhere, but in the delusional recesses of his own mind. In other words: he had not been this incensed in as long as he could remember.

So he stood there, temper barely in check, while Mycroft Holmes demonstrated how to stay incredibly polite, not say anything that might be considered impertinent, yet still tell the person –technically – in charge of the country to be a good boy and shoo.

The door to the office was closed with a decided but soft 'snick' of the lock. Calm, measured footsteps made their way across the carpet and then Mycroft Holmes was in his field of vision again, straightening his waistcoat and jacket before he sat down in his office chair.

"I gather you have questions?" he stated blandly.

"Don't play games with me, Mycroft," snapped Lestrade.

The blue eyes narrowed a bit, presumably at the use of his first name, possibly wincing at ever having given the uncouth person in front of him permission to use it, but then, he seemed to deflate.

"Won't you sit down?" he asked, pointing to the chair that the prime minister had just vacated, "I assure you, you can glare at me just as efficiently from there, it will however, prevent me from getting a crick in my neck."

Lestrade considered staying where he was, just to be contrary, but conceded the point and sat down.

"Heaven forbid I'd be an inconvenience to you," he muttered rebelliously none-the-less.

"Any more than you already are, you mean?" Mycroft questioned finely, that ghastly, fake politician's smile of his plastered on his face. Somehow, today, it looked even sharper than usual, like a shark giving you a polite smile just before it bit you in half.

Lestrade was in a fine temper however and, ill-advised or not, wasn't in the mood to be deterred by shark-like smiles.

"Seriously Mycroft, did you ever consider telling me Sherlock was still alive?"

Again, a slight tightening around the eyes; he must really remember to use the politician's first name as often as possible, since it seemed to annoy the hell out of the man. One had to take one's victories where one could get them against a Holmes, after all. Maybe, if he annoyed him enough, he might get him to blurt out something ill-advised. Just the thought of chipping away the tiniest bit of that iron control that Mycroft Holmes exerted at all times, sent a thrill through him.

"I…thought about it, but on balance it was an unnecessary risk with no real benefits, so I discarded the idea."

Mycroft's facial expression, while he was explaining this, could be used as the 'before' picture in a laxatives advert.

Lestrade leaned back in his chair, the words bouncing around in his skull. 'Unnecessary risk…. No real benefits….' God, what it must be like to have a Holmes brain…. He wondered how they managed to survive in the world that they detached themselves from so easily.

"Right," he said slowly, pensively, "Of course." He nodded to himself and he got up. Mycroft looked up at him from his seated position, still those tense lines around his eyes.

"It was silly of me, to really expect my feelings, my well-being to weigh in at all." He gave a self-deprecating smile. "To think one could actually befriend a Holmes…."

With that, he turned around and walked towards the door, a heaviness settling in his stomach.

"Greg!"

He stopped abruptly and looked over his shoulder in surprise, both at the use of his first name as well as the note of urgency in the voice.

Mycroft had stood up and was leaning forward, hands on his desk, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the inspector.

"Your well-being was of utmost importance," he said softly and with conviction, "It was one of the reasons Sherlock did what he did and it was the reason I helped him."

Lestrade looked towards the floor, blinked once, twice, then nodded.

"All right," he said and continued on his way out. Behind him, Mycroft Holmes slowly sat down and pressed his fingers against his eyes as he let out a weary sigh.

Lestrade made it as far as the stairwell before it hit him. The thing that had been niggling at him the whole time he'd been in Mycroft's office as well as what the latter had said precisely. He hesitated for a moment, foot hanging in the air over the first step, then, suddenly decisive, he turned back round.

The assistant, this time, seemed more determined to keep him out.

"He suffers with migraines, doesn't he?" Lestrade demanded before she could even open her mouth. She gave him a suspicious look.

"Get me a glass of water and some paracetamol. And a cup of tea!" he barked in his best Detective Inspector voice. To his gratification, she automatically jumped to do his bidding, before correcting the impulse and resuming her previous stance in front of her boss's office door.

"I'll take care of it, I promise," he said sincerely.

She snorted indelicately, "If you succeed you'd be the first."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow in query. "He never allows it to stop him. Most people don't even realise. And I've never got him to take so much as a paracetamol, let alone to take a break."

Lestrade nodded. " Leave it to me."

With that, he let himself back into the office he'd only just left. Mycroft sat behind his desk, fingers pressing into his eyes, shoulders slumped in fatigue.

"Anthea, could I trouble you for a fresh cup of tea please? The chamomile, maybe?" he murmured in a low voice.

Lestrade didn't say anything as he made his way over to the large window and started letting down the blinds. He moved from window to window until the room was fairly dark, except for the circle of light provided by the screen of the laptop sat by Mycroft's left elbow.

The door opened and the assistant stuck her head around the door, holding a tray out to him. The detective inspector took it from her with a silent nod of thanks, noting the quick, worried look she shot the man at the desk before she discreetly closed the door behind her. Greg would be willing to bet good money that nothing short of the apocalypse would disturb them.

His footsteps were muffled by the luxurious carpet, but despite that, it should have been obvious they belonged to a man. For Mycroft Holmes, of all people, to look taken aback when he finally took his hands away from his face and found detective inspector Lestrade putting a tray down in front of him rather than his assistant was a bit worrying.

He looked unlike his usual self as well. His eyes were bloodshot now, a bit watery from pressing his fingers into them and that tenseness Lestrade had noted subconsciously throughout their whole conversation had ratcheted up a notch or two.

"I didn't realise you had a migraine," he said quietly as he picked up the glass of water and pressed it into Holmes' hand.

"Would you have shouted less or more if you had?" Mycroft asked wearily before he took a sip.

Lestrade picked up the tablets and neatly pressed them from the blister pack they were contained in.

"I might have chosen another time entirely to have this conversation."

Seeing that Mycroft made no move to take the tablets, he took hold of the man's free hand, turned it so the palm was facing up and deposited the tablets into it.

"So is this guilt, then?" Mycroft asked, a half-hearted attempt at his condescending smile stealing over his face.

Lestrade gave a weary sigh.

"Take the bloody tablets, Mycroft."

"I never take tablets."

"it's not a sign of weakness; take the bloody tablets."

"Are you going to stay until I do?" he asked belligerently.

"I am," the detective inspector confirmed. "I WILL ALSO START RAISING MY VOICE!"

Mycroft visibly flinched, scrunching his eyes closed and, without further ado, put the tablets in his mouth and swallowed them with a gulp of water.

"Happy now?" He was aiming for sarcasm, possibly grumpiness, but his voice sounded a bit hoarse now and all it evoked in the detective was sympathy.

"Have some tea as well."

Mycroft opened his eyes to give him an exasperated look, even though it obviously hurt him to do so, but on seeing the inspector's implacable expression, he reached for the cup and took a tentative sip.

Involuntairly, he closed his eyes and a little bit of the tension left his face as the warmth and comfort of the drink spread through him. By the smell, the assistant had indeed brought them the chamomile, even though she hadn't been in the room when Mycroft requested it. Greg was starting to see why she held her current position.

The inspector waited until the politician finished his tea and set the cup back down on the desk.

Slowly and deliberately he leaned to his right, eyes once again locked with Mycroft's, his hand blindly searching for and finding the laptop screen and pushing it closed. With that source of light gone, he could only just make out Mycroft's features. As far as he could tell, the government official was looking at him with a small frown of confusion.

Gently, he touched Mycroft's temples, his fingers softly palpating the skin, familiarising himself with the anatomy of this particular man.

"Detective Inspector? What are you doing?"

Greg Lestrade smiled at the odd attempt to maintain the distance between them, even with Mycroft's face only inches in front of his abdomen and both Greg's hands on the politician's face.

His thumbs found the correct position and without any further warning, he pressed down hard. Mycroft let out a pained sound and reflexively tried to pull away. "Shhh," Greg soothed him with his voice, "You're all right, I've got you," even as he kept up the pressure.

Mycroft let out another pained groan, but he was starting to fall forward, giving in. Lestrade let the other man rest his head against his abdomen, carefully listening to the sounds coming from the politician.

In a minute or so, there was a minute relaxation in the other's shoulders; it was the sign Greg had been waiting for.

Gently, ever so gently he released the pressure on the other man's temples. He then switched to fingers rather than thumbs and started to expertly massage the painful area.

He could hear Mycroft taking deep breaths, still the occasional pained whimper, but less and less so.

He slowly increased the area he was massaging from just the temples to also include the rest of Mycroft's skull: he carded his fingers through the government official's hair as his fingers smoothly slid over skin, applying pressure where needed, releasing tense muscles, relieving pain.

He then moved on to grabbing Mycroft's hair in his fists and pulling gently. Mycroft let out a soft groan that sounded more like pleasure than pain.

Greg released his grip, carded his fingers through soft auburn hair a few times, then repeated the move.

Again, there was a groan, definitely of pleasure this time and the DI felt the sound cause a shiver down his spine. Also, his cock was starting to take an interest in the proceedings.

For his own sanity, he finished up the head massage with some long, supple strokes along Mycroft's skull and down his neck.

When he was finished, he left his hands lying on the back of the other man's neck a moment, allowing his warmth to soak into the other's skin.

What he hadn't expected, was when he took a step back, for Mycroft to be so relaxed that he all but toppled out of his chair until Greg caught him by the shoulders.

He looked down at the man seated in front of him, half-asleep from the looks of it and shook his head in fond exasperation.

"You never cease to surprise me, Mycroft Holmes," he murmured softly.

He bent down and carefully picked the slighter man up with one arm behind his back and one arm under his knees. His back protested a little bit as he straightened, but overall it was an altogether pleasant sensation to hold the elder Holmes in his arms, warm and pliant and boneless.

Greg adjusted his hold, then carefully stepped around the desk and started making his way over to the elegant sofa set in between the two large windows. Halfway there, he nearly froze when he felt a soft, snuffling sensation against his neck followed by gentle, closed mouthed kisses.

As soon as the other person felt his hesitation, they froze as well, the kisses halting abruptly and Greg almost wanted to cry. Instead, he took a calming breath and resumed his walk towards the sofa, adjusting his grip again to hold the man in his arms a bit closer still. If, in the process, he pushed the other's head a bit closer to his own neck, it was purely accidental.

He'd taken two more steps before there was another soft kiss against his neck. His breathing hitched, but he kept walking, soft, innocent kisses raining down on the side of his neck.

He had reached the sofa now and he just stood there, holding the man in his arms and allowing him to explore the right side of his neck. The permission was obviously perceived correctly, as the other was now getting a bit bolder in his explorations. He moved his mouth upwards towards the line of his jaw, then moved towards his ear.

The soft, uneven breathing was the most exciting thing Greg Lestrade had ever heard and when tentative lips first gently kissed then hesitantly closed around his earlobe, he couldn't help but moan softly. This only seemed to spur the other on, as he now started sucking on the earlobe and playing with it with his tongue; Greg's knees nearly buckled and he hastily lowered his charge onto the sofa pillows.

As he moved back, he met wide blue eyes, pupils visibly dilated, cheeks starting to bloom with a violent blush. The lips, rosy and plump with a soft, wet sheen from recent activities, were opened slightly in dismay. Overall, Mycroft Holmes looked shocked and on the verge of mortification.

Greg Lestrade searched for something to say, for words to explain that his actions had not been unwelcome, unwanted…that, on the contrary, they had been longed for and dreamed about. He failed utterly. So, being faced with the falling face of his crush, he did the only thing he could think of and kissed the man.

It was certainly not one of his better kisses as far as technique went. He nearly gave Mycroft another headache by bumping into him so suddenly and he might have got one or more of their lips caught in between their teeth. But it was hungry and urgent and wet and warm and oh so perfect.

He could hear the, frankly adorable, snuffling noises Mycroft made while kissing, could feel his hands scrabbling for purchase inside his coat and the soft, warm reality of the man's lips against his own.

The kiss gentled, then turned into soft separate kisses, where every time Greg though Mycroft was going to pull back definitively after the next one, but there was always one more.

In the end, it was him that pulled back a bit, wanting to look at those eyes now that his had adjusted to the twilight conditions of the room.

Mycroft had flushed cheeks, his lips were pink and swollen from kissing and the stunning colour of his eyes was hardly visible due to the fact that his pupils had taken up most of his irises. Greg didn't know how to interpret the look he was giving him, so he just grinned his cheeky grin.

"Wow," he said, "You are something else." And he chuckled a bit, because to be frank, he didn't really know what to think himself.

Mycroft attempted to sit up straighter, some of the haughtiness returning to his features as he tried to regain a modicum of control.

"Shh," Greg shushed him by placing two fingers against his mouth before he could begin to say anything.

"Please don't say anything. I know you're confused, but all I want to say is: 'Thank you.' And: 'I think you are amazing.' "

With that, he pushed Mycroft back down onto the sofa. He found a small pillow that he placed under his head. His hands then slid to the tasteful blue tie and slipped the knot free. He pulled it off and set it aside, then undid the top two buttons of the shirt underneath. Moving to the other end, he undid the shoe laces, pulled off the undoubtedly handmade shoes and put them under the sofa.

Straightening back up, Mycroft's blue-eyed gaze invariably fixed on him in mild confusion, he then quickly undid the two buttons that held his own overcoat closed and slid it off his shoulders.

He quietly draped it over the man on the sofa, pulling it up underneath his chin.

"You need sleep. When you feel like your normal self again, you can return my coat to me in person… or have it sent by courier, your choice," he said softly. Mycroft just looked at him, silent.

Greg reached out a hand to brush through auburn hair, coming to rest just below Mycroft's ear.

He bent over and pressed his lips against Mycroft's once again, gratified to feel an immediate response. He smiled against the other man's lips, allowing their foreheads to rest against one another even as he broke the kiss.

"I think you are amazing, Mycroft Holmes," he whispered.

With that, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade straightened up and walked out of the office.

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><p><strong>AN<strong>: Okay, so as I said before, this little snippet was what my muse came up with after reading Nightengale's Mystrade trilogy. Anyone who hasn't read it: go read it, it is absolutely brilliant! Very good, true to Gatiss' performance Mycroft, non-Mary Sue original characters, a hilarious set of siblings for one detective inspector and emotional development and overall storyline to satisfy the most romantic of hearts.

Anyway. This story, as it stands now, is a one-shot. A little plot-bunny that my muse had me write in half a day after being completely swept off my feet by Nightengale.

Things I sort of assumed for the story, but didn't explicitly explain were:

- Mycroft and Greg have kept in touch during the years of Sherlock's absence

- Greg definitely views Mycroft as a friend, deeper feelings might be developing but as of the beginning of the story he's not consciously aware of it yet

- Mycroft greatly values Greg; he also might have been developing some deeper feelings, but seeing that he has no experience with these, he certainly hasn't realised it yet

- Mycroft, in many ways important to this story, is an innocent. My view of him was inspired by Mark Gatiss' portrayal of dr Lazarus in the dr Who series, who –when he's not being condescendingly arrogant – seems to possess an almost fawn-like innocence which makes you want to protect him from disappointment. If you don't know what I'm talking about, see if you can find a clip of dr Lazarus seeking shelter in a church and his face when he says: "You've read about it." That disappointment… that unfathomable moment of 'Nobody understands me', that's exactly the kind of vulnerability I wanted him to have here.

- Lestrade's ex-wife suffers with migraines as well, which is why he recognises the signs in Mycroft and knows so well what to do with them, as well as learnt the –completely made up! – massage technique he employs. Please do not try this at home; there are elements of actual massage techniques in there, but parts of it are also made up. This is not a treatment manual.

I hope you all enjoyed and would love to hear your feedback.

SS.


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